Secrets
by Sierraforrest
Summary: When 14yr old Ariana Corvus is reaped for the Hunger Games she becomes part of not only the battle in the arena, but also a battle to find out about her past. Will she discover the true circumstances surrounding her mother's death and find out why her uncle hates her? Or will she die in the bloodbath?


District 1

Ariana Corvus

I study the ring again, twisting it around on my finger. I run a finger on my other hand along the plaited rose-gold band and stop when I touch the opal embedded in the centre; the stone for which my mother was named.

I gaze into its shimmering silvery-blue depths hoping to see even a glimpse of her, the mother I never knew, but as always the only person I see looking back is myself; too small, too thin, my face tiny, my ears too pointed. And, even though at fourteen I am at the age I should be raising my scores at the training academy so I can volunteer, the exact opposite of a career tribute.

Sighing, I pull my finger away and pick up my pencil, not my working one, my drawing one. With a few careful strokes I finish. That's when I look up and see my teacher, Ms Cartel, standing over me.

Her grey eyes are even more icy than normal, as she looks at me like I am some kind of bug, and her lips are set in a firm line. Wordlessly she reaches out her hand and, equally wordlessly, I pass her my precious sketch knowing what will happen next.

She strides, slower than normal, or maybe that is just my imagination, back to her desk. Her claw-like fingers rip the paper slightly as she crumples it. She drops it into the bin beside her desk. The whole class is looking at her expectantly.

Fortunately the bell rings and I am spared the lecture that would normally follow. The instant she says, "Class dismissed," in her grating voice I shove my stuff into my bag and swing it onto my shoulder. I stand and walk as fast as I can to the door, where I can escape from this room.

In my haste my foot catches on something and I start to fall. My hands are less than halfway to the ground when somebody catches my arms and shoves me gently back to my feet. I look into my rescuer's face. The first thought that enters my mind is that he isn't laughing. His lips aren't curling up in scorn and he isn't making one of the usual cutting remarks. His eyes are soft as he looks at me. He looks as though he wants to say something important, but instead he lets me go and walks towards the teacher's desk. I stand there a moment longer then leave the room.

Once I am off the school grounds my feet start to walk in the direction of the Training Academy. Then I remember: it's the reaping tomorrow, scores were given out this morning. Mine was predictably low, the lowest in my age group. It always is. At least I don't have to embarrass myself today.

I'm good enough with a bow or a throwing knife and when it comes to speed and agility my small stature gives me an advantage. However in District 1 it's strength and skill at hand to hand combat that count. And those are the areas I fail in.

The girl who will be volunteering, Jade, is twice my size and five times stronger than me. In the exam she scored 398, two points off a perfect 400. The boy who will be paired with her, Nathan, scored 399, the best in career history.

I skid to a stop halfway form home as I realise who the boy in school was. I was helped by Nathan Riviera! "Why would he do that, why would he even notice me?" I say to myself as I start walking again. Probably he felt sorry for me. To a career that amazing the games are such an honour that never being able to volunteer would be a fate worse than death. Of course for twenty three unlucky kids every year they're just death. At least with my low scores I'll stay out of the games and out of that twenty three. Anyone who chooses to volunteer is just plain stupid. Or suicidal. Or both. Or possibly so conceited they are convinced that they'll win. At least failing every year stops you from getting an overly high opinion of your own abilities.

I stop thinking about that as I reach my house. The grey paint used to be white, it is in all the pictures we have of it. But, for as long as I can remember it has been covered in dirt with dusty windows and the small garden overgrown. The other houses down the street look like it must have once looked: with painted white walls, sparkling clean windows, vibrant flowers filling the garden.

My hand rests on the door handle for a moment, but then I open it and enter.

Nathan Riviera

I catch her arm as she starts to fall and help her to her feet. As she looks into my face she shrinks back. I want to tell her I adore her, but I am going into the games tomorrow and may never return. My parents and older sister would never understand if I back out.

Instead I let her go and walk over to the teacher's desk. I rescue the picture she drew form the bin and place it carefully in my bag, just like every other time. I have fifteen of these back home. My family don't understand, but how could they. Have they forgotten how my brother volunteered and died? Now I might be about to join him.

Ariana Corvus

When I enter the house my uncle is waiting. "Well?" he asks, "How did you do?" He means at the academy of course. "72," I reply. He hits me and I stumble backwards, tears filling my cobalt eyes, eyes that are so like my mother's if everyone else is to be believed. "You're going to end up just like your mother," he snaps, "dead in the hunger games." He storms off and I'm left on my own.


End file.
